


Christmas Songbook

by ShoyDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Cliches abound, Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShoyDragon/pseuds/ShoyDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An advent calendar of sorts; Shoy attempts a holiday-themed writing challenge...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deck the Halls

**Author's Note:**

> This collection of drabbles was prompted by the 'Christmas OTP Challenge' on tumblr. The chapters are all named using titles of classic Christmas songs and carols because I'm a sucker for clichés and I couldn't resist. Each drabble follows the previous one, so the whole work can be read as a comprehensive piece, although I'm trying my best to have each 'chapter' work on its own as well. I'll be posting one drabble a day from now until Christmas, just like any other advent calender.
> 
> Happy Holidays!

“Think you could lend us a hand, Sherlock?”

The detective in question opened an eye to regard his flat-mate with a frown. John was standing in the doorway of the sitting room with several cardboard boxes balanced rather precariously in his arms. His head was barely visible over the top box and he had had to turn sideways to meet Sherlock’s eye.

“Just help me set these down without breaking anything and you can go back to your sulk.”

Sherlock rose off the couch in an indignant swirl of silk. “I do not sulk, John,” he huffed, snatching the top box out of John’s arms and placing it in the center of the coffee table. “I was thinking.”

“Right. Thinking about how mad you are with Lestrade for taking the whole of December off, yeah?” John said with a smile. “That’s definitely not sulking…”

“It isn’t.” Sherlock agreed. “What is in all of these boxes anyway? Surely you didn’t order that many pouches of tea from that online store.”

“They’re holiday decorations. Mrs. Hudson asked if we could decorate all of 221, not just our flat. Says she’s too old to be going up and down step-stools, but she’ll gladly tell us how to hang the garland on the stairs if we need help,” John explained. “And I ordered two samples, not their entire inventory. Honestly, Sherlock, I have some control when it comes to purchasing tea!”

Sherlock opened the nearest box and gazed inside with a look of mild disgust. “She expects you to decorate the whole building? Why? It’s not even December yet.”

“It’s the first, Sherlock. And you’ll notice I said _us_ , not just me; Mrs. Hudson expects you to help too. And don’t think I’ll let you hang two things and then stand around and watch me. You’re helping with the entire process.”

“Tedious,” Sherlock sighed, pulling out a strand of lights. “Mother would just hire an interior decorator to take care of everything.”

John grinned, taking the lights from Sherlock and gesturing to the desk. “Excellent. You’ll have an eye for it then. I was just going to use your height as an excuse for you to hang things.”

Sherlock scowled at John, who returned the look by sticking out his tongue. “Juvenile, John.”

“Shut-up, Sherlock, and start hanging things. I’m going to see if I can find some music to put us in the decorating spirit.”

“As long as it isn’t some over-produced drivel like what seems to pass for music these days!”

The doctor switched on the radio and ‘Deck the Halls’ began blasting through the flat. Sherlock complained. John sang along. A tinsel fight ensued. Later, when Mrs. Hudson asked what the hell had happened to the sitting room of 221b, Sherlock informed her that they had “merely decked the halls like you asked us to.” John had to fight back giggles.


	2. We Wish You a Merry Christmas

“What have you done with my experiments?”

John looked up from the remarkably clear kitchen table to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock. “I moved them. I needed the space for a project of my own.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before turning to the fridge.

“They’re in the sitting room, Sherlock. I know better than to subject any of your experiments to sudden temperature changes…”

“Well that’s something, I suppose,” Sherlock muttered as he hurried past to check. Once he was sure everything was still useable, the detective returned to the kitchen and stood in the doorway watching his flat-mate.

John was seated at the kitchen table, which was covered in various crafting supplies. Piles of colourful paper took up the majority of the space, but there were plenty of stickers and a few magazines strewn about. Several different pairs of scissors that cut in unique patterns were next to John’s right elbow. And the amount of glitter…

“What exactly are you doing that necessitated the relocation of all of my equipment, and why does the table look like a primary school art room?” Sherlock asked after a minute of watching John fiddle with a sheet of stickers.

“I’m making cards,” John replied, gesturing for Sherlock to sit in the chair to his right. “I got tired of always just buying some sort of stationary and I remember doing something like this when I was a kid. Mum would gather me and Harry at the table and we’d spend hours trying to make the perfect card… Somehow I always wound up with glitter in my hair.”

Sherlock regarded his flat-mate with a slightly concerned expression. “So this is just a bout of nostalgia? Because I’ve seen you decorate; I know you’ll end up buying stationary anyways…”

“Hey! I can totally make a card worth sending,” John insisted. “I’d like to see what you can come up with!”

“Honestly, John, this is absolutely childish and I refuse to participate.”

John shot Sherlock a wounded look. “You won’t even make one for me?” he half-teased.

Sherlock glared at John for a ten-count before sighing dramatically and reaching for the nearest piece of paper. “Fine, I’ll make you one. What colour should I use?”

“Pick whichever you want,” John said with a shrug, mentally cheering for having goaded Sherlock into participating. “I’m sure I’ll love whatever you make for me.”

Sherlock nodded and snatched up a pair of scissors while John grinned and grabed a new sheet of paper to start a card for Sherlock. “Pass me those when you’re done, will you?”

The pair worked in silence for a while before John started humming to himself.

“Oh for God’s sake, John, not again with the terrible music!” Sherlock snapped.

“’We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ is a classic, Sherlock!” John protested. “Plus it’s totally appropriate for what we’re doing. We are quite literally wishing people Merry Christmas.”

“That may be what you’re doing,” Sherlock drawled, “but I’m creating works of art. They can be blank on the inside for all I care.”

John blinked. “Doesn’t that sort of defeat the whole purpose of making cards?”

“And that is precisely why I didn’t want to join you on this pointless venture in the first place.”

John shook his head. “You have to write something on the inside, Sherlock. At least tell the person why you made the card or something. That reminds me…” John rooted around the growing mess of loose paper and scraps on the table before finding an old takeaway receipt with a list of names scribbled on the back. “Do you want to make a card for Mycroft, or should I?”

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft is definitely not worth the time. You can make him one.”

“He’s your brother, Sherlock.”

“It’s your list, John.”

In the end, Sherlock wound up making a card for Mrs. Hudson and one for Lestrade in addition to the two different cards he created for John. John also made cards for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, as well as for Molly, the entirety of Scotland Yard and Sherlock.

Sherlock’s cards were noticeably nicer looking.

John had glitter in his hair.


	3. Let it Snow

Sherlock stood at the window of 221b and glared. The temperature had dropped much further than expected overnight and London had woken up to a fresh blanket of snow. It had warmed a bit and started melting into slush over the morning, but the thermometer was slowly descending again and there were clouds rolling in to blot out the noon-time sun, and Sherlock just knew it was going to snow.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it to the Yard today, Sherlock,” John said as he walked past the detective and into the kitchen. “You’re going to have to pick up that collection of cold cases when the streets aren’t covered in an inch of ice.”

There was a grunt from Sherlock in acknowledgement, but he continued to look out the window as if he could change the weather simply by staring.

John poked his head back into the sitting room. “I’m going to make some hot cocoa. Do you want any?”

Sherlock grunted again.

“Stop watching the clouds, Sherlock,” John chided. “You can’t make them vanish with your mind… Why don’t you build us a fire? This is the sort of weather that demands cuddling by the fire.”

“This weather is hateful, John. I demand that it go away.”

“Fire please, Sherlock.”

With a defeated sigh the detective turned from the window and stalked over to the fireplace. He stabbed rather viciously at the charred remains of their last fire with the poker before angrily arranging logs and kindling in the center of the grate. Even frustrated and bored to the point of crawling out of his skin, Sherlock was excellent at building fires, which was why John always asked him to take care of it. With a small thrill of pride Sherlock struck a match and watched his creation burn.

“That looks lovely, Sherlock. Thank you.” John had returned from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits. “Grab the blanket off the couch, will you?”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance but did as he was asked. When he returned, John was sitting on the rug with his back against his armchair. He motioned for Sherlock to sit next to him. The detective flopped rather ungracefully to the floor and pressed his side into John, who laughed and draped the blanket over both of them.

“Here’s your cocoa, you moody lump.” John chuckled. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

“I am not a child, John. I know how to handle hot beverages,” Sherlock retorted, taking a tentative sip. He hummed in satisfaction.

The two of them sat comfortably in front of the fire for a while, just enjoying each others’ presence. They sipped slowly, savoring the warmth and the chocolate, so nearly twenty minutes had passed before Sherlock began running low and looked away from the fire to the window again.

“It’s snowing, John,” he sighed, “again… I’m going to go mad if I can’t have those case files tonight. I can already feel my brain starting to decay.”

John didn’t appreciate having his moment interrupted by his flat mate’s melodrama. “You’ll be fine, Sherlock. Just shut-up and drink your cocoa.” He shifted so he could wrap an arm around Sherlock. “You can’t go out when it’s like this; no one will be out driving and I forbid you from walking all the way to the Yard.”

“If it wasn’t snowing I could go,” Sherlock pouted.

John was struck with an idea. If Sherlock was going to ruin the afternoon for John, John was going to do his best to retaliate. “Well, the weather outside _is_ frightful,” he agreed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t normally speak like that. What are you doing..?”

“But the fire is _so_ delightful,” John continued, fighting to keep a straight face.

“That rhymed. Why did that rhyme? You aren’t quoting one of those awful holiday songs, are you?”

“And since we’ve no place to go…”

“Stop it. No. John, please.”

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” John belted, throwing out his arms and making jazz hands. Sherlock glared.

Now flat-out singing, John stood to get himself more cocoa. “It doesn’t show signs of stopping. And I brought some corn for popping.” He took Sherlock’s mug as well and continued towards the kitchen, still singing. “The lights are turned way down low.” With a dramatic click John flicked the sitting room lights off. “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

Sherlock winced. “Alright, alright! I’m sorry. I’ll sit here quietly if you’ll stop singing…”

Handing Sherlock a fresh mug of cocoa, John grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	4. Silver Bells

John could feel the glare Sherlock was giving him prickling the hairs on the back of his neck, but he ignored him. It wasn’t like John had _told_ Sherlock to join him; if anything John had told Sherlock to stay away. Clearly, Sherlock was an even bigger idiot than he let on.

Pointedly ignoring the indignant huff of breath from behind him, John glanced at the list in his hand and back at the window display. He needed to find something for Molly that would show appreciation for all she put up with without implying anything else. Knowing Molly, that would be basically impossible.

“John,” Sherlock said sharply, obviously giving up on the silent treatment. Pity. “Why have you dragged me along if all you are going to do is stare at shops and never actually purchase anything? Is this some sort of punishment? And how is this any more acceptable of an activity to do in this weather than going over to Bart’s? At least at Bart’s there would be the possibility of a case to solve; the only thing I’m learning here is that you are terrible at buying gifts.”

John raised an eyebrow but otherwise did not acknowledge Sherlock’s outburst. Maybe a jumper for Molly? No, that would give her some weird twisted hope that Sherlock had picked it out specifically for her and she’d start wearing it all the time. A pair of gloves, maybe…?

“John! I know you can hear me. I demand to know why you have dragged me out in the cold to stand around while you mull over every stupid gift idea your tiny brain can conceive of.” Sherlock was scowling now. “This is practically abuse!”

“I didn’t drag you out here, Sherlock, you followed me,” John began calmly, finally looking the detective in the eye. “My intention today was to look at a few things, get some ideas and maybe purchase a gift or two. I was not planning on dragging an over-grown child along with me, but now that you are here I could really use your help. So please, stop behaving like a twelve-year-old and help me figure out what to get for Molly.”

Sherlock blinked, looking slightly put-out by the child comment. “I thought you told me to come…” he muttered, cocking his head. “You told me to come, didn’t you?”

John shook his head. “No, Sherlock. I told you I was going out shopping and asked if you wanted to join me, but I never told you to follow me down here. You made that decision on your own.”

“Oh.” John had never seen Sherlock look so lost before. Clearly he hadn’t been paying attention when John was putting on his coat, and it didn’t look like he had been paying attention until a few minutes ago.

“You can go home, Sherlock,” John sighed. “In fact, I think I’d prefer it if you did.”

Sherlock looked offended for half a second before he realized what John was implying. “Ah, yes. I need to purchase something for you as well. I shall see you back at Baker Street.”

“Build a fire!” John called after the retreating detective. “And reheat the Chinese for dinner tonight!”

Someone came out of the store to John’s right, music from inside spilling out on to the street.

“Children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile…”

John picked up the tune and started humming to himself as he moved along the block. Maybe some jewelry for Mol-? John cut his thoughts off before he went _way_ too far. Molly need jewelry from John and Sherlock like she needed her fingernails pulled off with a pair of pliers; that was absolutely never going to happen. Silver would look nice on Sherlock though… John ducked into the jewelry shop, still humming.

“And on every street corner you’ll hear; Silver bells, silver bells. It’s Christmas time in the city. Ring-a-ling, hear them sing. Soon it will be Christmas Day.”


	5. O Christmas Tree

“What about this one, Sherlock? Too tall?”

Sherlock crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at his flat-mate. “Honestly, John, I _don’t_ care. Just pick a bloody tree so we can go.” He turned to regard the tree lot with disdain. “If I’m out here much longer I’m going to pick up something nasty. Like stupidity.”

“Or Christmas spirit,” John muttered, shaking his head. “Come on, Sherlock. We need to get a good tree for Mrs. Hudson, and you know how big the hallway is. Just help me find one that will fit and isn’t completely brown, and we can leave. Think of it like a case; _A Study in Christmas Trees_ or something.”

Sherlock hummed in assent and stalked off down an aisle without a word. John scrambled after him, dodging around a family of four with a murmured apology. When he caught up with Sherlock, the detective was regarding a pair of trees with the critical eye he normally saved for particularly interesting crime scenes.

“These two came from the same farm,” he told John, plucking at a branch and scowling at the needles that came off in his gloved hand. “This one, however, has some sort of infection and will likely lose half of its needles before we reach the flat. And as this one came from the same farm, it is safe to assume that it has been exposed to the same disease and therefore not a viable candidate for the ‘perfect tree’ for Mrs. Hudson. Moving on.”

Sherlock led John up and down the aisles, past countless trees. Sometimes the detective would pause and spend a solid minute examining a tree from every angle before shaking his head, other times he would barely give a tree a second look before walking away.

John was beginning to regret telling Sherlock to apply his skills to the tree hunt and was wondering if the detective was going to reject every single tree on the lot when Sherlock stopped short and John nearly ran him over.

“There. That’s the tree we want, John.”

John edged around his flat-mate to peer at the tree Sherlock had picked. “Um, that’s a bit small, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense; it will fit in the hallway perfectly. Go find a sales person. I’ll stand guard.”

“Right…” John hurried off to find an employee. He had a feeling that if he left Sherlock alone too long the detective would take to verbally assaulting people to keep them away from _his_ tree. “Excuse me? I think we’re ready to check-out..?”

Once the tree had been paid for Sherlock looked at John expectantly. “Well?”

“‘Well’ what?”

“Well, are you going to carry the tree or aren’t you?”

John stared. “I’m not carrying the tree by myself, Sherlock! The flat’s at least ten minutes away. You’re helping.” He snatched the bottom of the tree and picked it up so the tree flopped on to its side. “Grab your end and let’s go. I’m losing feeling in my toes.”

Sherlock huffed and picked up his end.

They walked in a comfortable silence for a few block before John realized that Sherlock was humming something and nearly dropped the tree. “Sherlock, are you humming a _Christmas song_?”

“I am humming a traditional German folk carol,” Sherlock informed him smugly. “There is no mention of jolly fat men in red suits or giving gifts to people you can hardly stand.”

“You’re humming ‘O Christmas Tree’!” John insisted, turning to look at Sherlock. “It’s about a _Christmas_ tree! I knew you had some holiday spirit in you!”

“I am humming ‘O Tannenbaum,’ which is about the evergreen qualities of a fir tree and has absolutely nothing to do with the celebration of the birth of Christ.”

“It’s a Christmas song, Sherlock. You’re humming a Christmas song. Don’t you _dare_ tell me otherwise.”

Sherlock sighed but didn’t argue further. He and John harmonized all the way home.


	6. It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas

“I don’t understand why you need my help with this part, John. It looked fine before you started hanging baubles everywhere…”

“We can’t just set up a tree in the hallway and leave it! Mrs. Hudson will be back this evening, and she deserves to come home to a decorated tree. We should have done this yesterday,” John insisted, handing the detective a strand of fairy lights, “but you vanished after I found the tree stand…”

Getting the tree through the door had been a bit of a challenge, but once John had finished fighting with branches and spitting pine needles everywhere, Sherlock declared the tree to be perfect and had promptly gone upstairs to 221b. John then spent an hour trying to get the tree to stand straight and had given up after the third time it had fallen on him. Sherlock was going to help John decorate the tree today or face John’s wrath.

“I still don’t understand the point of decorating the tree,” Sherlock complained, passing the lights back to John around the tree trunk. “I liked how it looked before. These ornaments are ruining the aesthetic.”

John snorted. “And you said you didn’t know a thing about decorating,” he muttered, taking the lights. “We’re decorating because Mrs. Hudson asked us to. I don’t know what we could possibly do with the boxes labeled ‘Christmas tree’ other than trim this tree.”

“Burn them?” Sherlock suggested hopefully.

“We are not burning Mrs. Hudson’s ornaments, Sherlock,” John chided. “I think that’s all the lights, though. Plug them in?”

Sherlock sighed and picked up the cord. “If you’re done with the lights am I allowed to be done helping?”

“No. You can help hang these icicle ornaments, though.” John sidled out from behind the tree and handed Sherlock a box of delicate glass spikes. “Don’t drop them.”

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock snapped, but he was very careful in accepting the box from John and took his time hanging each icicle.

With Sherlock’s attention focused on the tree, John took a moment to step back and see what they had done. The fairy lights shone brightly among the deep green needles and glinted off the ornaments already nestled in the branches. The icicles Sherlock was hanging were among the last decorations in the box, and John removed the final item with a satisfied hum.

“Can you reach to hang the star, Sherlock? I’m too short.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but took the star from John without comment and placed it on the top of the tree. He then stepped back to join John in admiring their handiwork.

“It looks beautiful, doesn’t it?” John whispered.

“I will admit it looks nicer than I was expecting,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly. “Although I still think it was best before we decorated it.”

John laughed. “Mrs. Hudson will love it, though, and that’s what matters, right?” He looked around. “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here.”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh god, John, now that awful song is going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day…”

“What so-?”

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Sherlock recited angrily. “Soon the bells will start.”

“And the thing that will make them ring is the carol that you sing right within your heart,” John finished.

“Yes, and now it’s going to be stuck in my head and distracting me from work.”

John looked confused. “But we aren’t working any cases.”

“I never said I was working _cases_ ,” Sherlock growled. “I need my violin.” He rushed up the stairs to the sitting room. John could hear Sherlock’s frantic search for his instrument as he started up the stairs himself, grinning.

When Mrs. Hudson returned to 221, she was pleasantly surprised to find the front hall decorated and a gorgeous Christmas tree waiting at the base of the stairs. She was a bit confused as to why Sherlock was playing the happy birthday song on his violin, but she wasn’t going to complain; the boys hadn’t broken any of her ornaments and the tree was absolutely perfect.


	7. All I Want for Christmas (is You)

Sherlock knew a good many things, but something he never understood (and never really wanted to, thank you very much) was the tradition of mistletoe. Why did standing beneath a cutting of this particular plant ( _viscum album_ ) lead to kissing? What sort of significance did this tradition hold and where exactly had it come from? Would John follow through with it if he found Sherlock beneath some mistletoe?

That last question was one Sherlock had been pondering since the first of December, when John had appeared in the doorway of the sitting room carrying boxes of decorations. Sherlock had been flooded with memories of his childhood, of the Christmases he’d spent at the family home, and he had begrudgingly helped John only because it gave him something else to focus on. But he had had days since then to think about just how lonely he felt during those Christmases at home, and it was time he did something to change that.

“I won’t ask for much this Christmas; I won’t even ask for snow. No, I’m just gonna keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe.” Sherlock was not a fan of most holiday songs, but he had to admit that the song currently playing on the florist’s radio was eerily appropriate for his situation and very much in-line with his train of thought. He was going to have to look it up when he got home. Perhaps John would recognize its significance and wouldn’t require an explanation for the mistletoe at all.

Flashing the clerk a fake smile, Sherlock paid for the sprig he had been contemplating and started the walk back to Baker Street. Even if John didn’t subscribe to the mistletoe tradition, at least Mrs. Hudson would appreciate the gesture. She had been pleased with what he and John had hung up for her already; one more piece of greenery surely wouldn’t upset her. She might even find it sweet.

Mistletoe in hand, Sherlock rounded the corner at the end of the block and promptly ran into someone, knocking both of them to the ground. “Watch where you’re going!” Sherlock snapped, scrambling back to his feet and brushing snow from his coat.

“Sorry, sor—Sherlock?”

The detective froze mid swipe. “John.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, where have you been? I was just coming to look for you. You have to stop wandering off, especially in this weather!” John took over for Sherlock, wiping the rest of the snow off the detective’s coat while Sherlock stood there awkwardly. “At least text me or something, yea? Leave a note? I got back from the surgery and Mrs. Hudson told me you were out all day and I got worried.”

Sherlock quickly found his voice and knocked John’s hand aside (they were becoming a distraction) before returning the favor and reaching out to brush snow off John. “I appreciate your concern, John, but I’m fine. I just needed to think; the flat is suffocating with all those decorations covering every available surface…”

John looked slightly hurt. “Just tell me next time, alright? I don’t like coming home to an empty flat.”

“Apologies,” Sherlock sighed, looking around for the bag he had dropped when he and John collided. “I will endeavor to always be at the flat when you return from work.”

“Thanks,” John said with a smile. “What’s in here, then?” He held up the bag from the florist. Sherlock must have been especially distracted if he hadn’t even noticed John picking it up. “It’s not some rare flower you plan on destroying in another experiment, is it?”

“It is an experiment, but I am not going to destroy anything.” Knowing better than to try and take the bag back from John (the man had surprisingly quick reflexes for someone supposedly suffering from PTSD), Sherlock turned and started for 221b, hoping John would follow. He did.

“It’s not poisonous, is it?” John asked, nose wrinkling as he held the bag at arm’s length. There was laughter in his eyes.

“Only if you plan on ingesting it, which I do not,” Sherlock drawled, reaching the front step and opening the door for John. He followed the doctor inside.

“What is it, then?”

Resigned for the worst, Sherlock simply nodded towards the bag as he removed his coat. “See for yourself.”

John shot the detective a curious look but opened the bag without any further questions. The florist had wrapped the plant in a bit of tissue paper before handing it to Sherlock, so John had to pull the whole thing out of the bag to find the end of the paper. He carefully undid the wrappings while Sherlock fidgeted next to him. When he was finished, John regarded the sprig in his hands for a moment before turning his head to fix Sherlock with an unreadable expression. He looked almost awed.

“Sherlock, is this _mistletoe_?”

The detective nodded, suddenly filled with the urge to run up the stairs to 221b and disappear into his bedroom for several days. “That is a branch of _viscum album_ , yes.”

John’s eyes were going soft and Sherlock couldn’t decide if he should start panicking or not. “You do know what mistletoe is traditionally used for, right?” John whispered. “What it means..?”

“I know it is a common decoration during the holidays,” Sherlock said slowly, unsure if he wanted to reveal to John that he knew exactly what he was doing. “I noticed we didn’t have any, and I thought Mrs. Hudson would appreciate it.”

John snorted. “I hope she doesn’t appreciate it too much.” It was Sherlock’s turn to look hurt. “Sorry, it’s just…” John sighed and looked down at the mistletoe again. “Mistletoe is traditionally hung in doorways or above common areas and if you get caught under the mistletoe by someone…” He trailed off again.

“If you get caught under the mistletoe by someone, you’re supposed to kiss,” Sherlock finished for him, blushing slightly. “I know the significance, John. That’s why I purchased it.” The detective reached for the sprig and took it from John, who didn’t resist. Feeling a bit foolish, Sherlock held the mistletoe over his head and smiled shyly at his flat-mate. “Shall we?”

John looked hard at Sherlock for half a second before reaching up to cup the detective’s face and bring their mouths together. The kiss was gentle and chaste, more of a press of lips than anything else. Sherlock’s lips were cold and slightly chapped and softer than John was anticipating. He pulled away slowly, regarding Sherlock with a fond smile. “You’re an idiot, you know.”

Sherlock blinked, still feeling a bit dazed and resisting the urge to lick his lips. He wanted to catalogue what John tasted like so he could remember it forever, wanted John to never let go of his face. “I am not an idiot.”

“You are though, Sherlock,” John insisted gently. “You didn’t need to buy anything to get me to kiss you; you just needed to ask.”

“Would you really have kissed me if I just asked?” Sherlock breathed, his heart rate suddenly picking up.

John brushed a thumb over the detective’s cheekbone. “Yes.” He grinned. “I’ve been meaning to ask you myself, actually. I guess it wasn’t that stupid of a purchase…”

“I thought so,” Sherlock rumbled. “I knew you just needed an extra push.”

“This was what you meant when you said it was an experiment, isn’t it?” John accused playfully. “You were seeing if mistletoe would work on me, weren’t you?”

“I am happy to conclude that it does,” Sherlock replied proudly.

John laughed. “You can’t reach a conclusion with only one set of data, Sherlock,” he teased.

“Well then, I suppose we’ll have to repeat the experiment, won’t we?” The detective held the mistletoe over his head again. “Shall we, John?”

“Shut-up and kiss me.”

“With pleasure.”

The mistletoe (as well as the song from the florist’s) was very quickly forgotten.


	8. Frosty the Snowman

John was feeling rather pleased with himself. Yesterday he and Sherlock had managed to talk about a few things, had a good snog, and cleared the air around their relationship. But mostly the snogging. That had definitely been John’s favorite part. Now John could go back to flirting shamelessly and know that Sherlock actually understood his intentions, and that was a wonderful thought all on its own.

Humming as he poured boiling water into two different mugs, John couldn’t help but marvel at his luck. Not only did he live and work with one of the most brilliant men the world had ever seen, but now he could kiss Sherlock whenever he wanted to. John had been falling in love with his flat-mate since the day they had met, but to know that his feelings were returned was more than John had hoped for. As unexpected as it had been, Sherlock was the one who had purchased the mistletoe, Sherlock was the one to drag their relationship past 'just friends,' and as he always did, John was more than happy to follow where Sherlock led.

“Morning, John.” The familiar rumble interrupted John’s thoughts as Sherlock made his presence known. “Tea?”

“Just finished pouring,” John responded, offering Sherlock a mug. “You’ll have to put your own milk and sugar in.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and accepted the mug, purposefully letting his fingers linger on John’s longer than necessary. “Thank you.”

With a small smile John returned to his own mug. “Welcome. So, do you have any plans for today?”

There was a mischievous glint in Sherlock’s eye as he passed the milk to John. “Not anything specific, although I do have a few general ideas…”

John laughed. “Oh good, we’re on the same page, then.” He winked at Sherlock, who blushed slightly. “Make sure you dress warm, I don’t know how long we’ll be out today.”

Sherlock looked confused, his brow furrowing dramatically. “Outside, John..? What could we possibly do out there that can’t be done here in the comfort of the flat?”

“Build a snowman,” John stated with a smirk.

“And why would we want to build a snowman today?” Sherlock asked slowly.

“Because we can. It snowed again last night and Regent’s is covered with the stuff and I haven’t had the chance to build a snowman since I was a kid, so I was going to do that today.” John smiled innocently at his flat-mate. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but I’ll probably be more likely to want to do something you suggest later if you join me...”

Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow. “Well then, in that case, let me get my coat.”

“You might want to change out of your pajamas,” John called after him.

“No time!” Sherlock shouted back. “We’ve got a snowman to build! And the sooner we get that done the sooner we can come back here and do something much more interesting.”

John finished his tea, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. “Frosty, eat your heart out,” he muttered, putting his mug in the sink. “At this rate we’ll be having fun _long_ before you melt away.”


	9. The Twelve Days of Christmas

“Sherlock, have you seen my—?” John cut his question short, finding both the detective and the thing he was looking for in the sitting room. “Why are you wearing my jumper?”

Sherlock looked up from where he was lounging on the couch, a small smirk on his lips. “Why shouldn’t I be wearing your jumper? It’s warm and smells like you. You were asleep and this was an acceptable substitute for your presence.”

John shot Sherlock an incredulous look. “You’re wearing my jumper because you wanted to cuddle but didn’t want to wake me up?”

“That’s what I just said, John. You know how I feel about repetition.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Sherlock,” John said fondly. “But next time, just come join me in bed. As long as you don’t touch me with your freezing feet I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock nodded, sitting up so there was room for John to join him on the couch. Once John was seated, the detective took no time at all resting his head on John’s lap. John fiddled with Sherlock’s hair.

“I must say, that jumper does look rather good on you,” John mused after a few moments, twisting one of Sherlock’s curls gently around his finger before letting it go and watching it spring back into place. “I didn’t think red was your colour, but you’re definitely pulling it off.”

Sherlock made a face. “This jumper is hideous, and you know it, John,” he scoffed. “In fact, I’m seriously considering burning every holiday-themed piece of clothing in your wardrobe to save us all from humiliation.”

“Leave my clothes alone,” John said sternly, “or else I will be forced to take revenge on your sock index.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

John laughed. “Don’t test me, Holmes. Leave my collection of holiday jumpers out of it and your socks will live to see the light of day.”

Sherlock huffed. “I’d replace everything,” he muttered, clearly falling into a pout.

With a small smile John leaned over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “That’s a wonderful offer, Sherlock, but I’m perfectly happy with the jumpers I have.”

Sherlock hummed and didn’t say anything further on the subject.

For the next twelve days, John awoke to the detective clambering into bed and pressing cold toes into his calves. Every day, Sherlock was in a different jumper. Every day, he purposefully left that jumper in John’s wardrobe. It wasn’t until the sixth day (when Sherlock appeared in the doorway wearing a jumper patterned with geese), that John understood what was going on; Sherlock was giving him a new jumper collection that matched ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’ At the end of the twelve days, John had a jumper to represent each of the things “my true love gave to me.” They all smelled like Sherlock. John never treasured a piece of clothing more.


	10. Sugar Plum Suite

“John, is something burning..?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope to send an alarmed look at his flat-mate.

John was wearing a rather ridiculous reindeer patterned apron (borrowed from Mrs. Hudson) and darting around the kitchen collecting ingredients from various shelves. “I put the oven on self-clean,” he said with a shrug, opening a container to gaze at the contents warily. “You haven’t done anything to the sugar pot, have you?”

“You scrubbed it very thoroughly after my last experiment with mold cultures,” Sherlock reminded him. “I haven’t touched it since. Why are you cleaning the oven?”

“I’m going to do some holiday baking,” John explained. “Harry emailed me mum’s old gingerbread recipe and I thought I might make some, as we have nothing else on today. I’m cleaning the oven because I don’t know what you’ve done to it and I don’t want my baking to taste like decaying human flesh.” He paused to consult the paper he had printed out that morning. “Damn. Do you think Mrs. Hudson would lone me some eggs? Ours are past the sell-by date.”

Sherlock scoffed and returned to his slides. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to loan you some eggs to match that apron,” he drawled.

John laughed. “Fair point. I’ll be back in a tick.”

Sherlock grunted and waved a hand in the direction of the door as John made his way out. Ten minutes later (Mrs. Hudson must’ve wanted to chat), John returned carrying a bowl of eggs and a carton of eggnog.

“Mrs. Hudson sends her love,” John said cheerfully, placing the eggs on the counter. “Do you want some eggnog?” he asked, shaking the carton in question.

Sherlock glanced up. “I suppose,” he sighed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “Are you going to continue to interrupt me?”

“Definitely,” John retorted, fetching two glasses from the cupboard. “You could always just help me with this. I’ll leave you and the kitchen alone once I’m finished.”

Sherlock hummed in consideration before nodding once and getting to his feet. “Alright, I will help you in your ridiculous baking project, provided you do not ask me to wear a patterned apron.”

“Sounds like a fair trade-off,” John agreed as he offered Sherlock a glass of eggnog. “Do you want to do the mixing or the measuring?”

An hour later, Sherlock and John (and most of the kitchen) were covered in flour and the first batch of gingerbread was finally getting put in the oven.

“Well you can’t say we didn’t enjoy ourselves,” John giggled, swiping at a clump of white powder on Sherlock’s shoulder.

The detective chuckled and shook his head. “I just hope your gingerbread is worth it, John.”

“It will be,” John murmured, catching Sherlock’s face and bringing him close. He pressed a gentle kiss to his flat-mate’s lips. “You helped make it.”

Sherlock scoffed but enjoyed the kiss all the same. He wandered into the sitting room to find his violin and played selections from The Nutcracker while John attempted to wipe flour off of the light fixtures. The gingerbread almost burned. Sherlock still thought it was delicious.


	11. Santa Baby

Sherlock hummed to himself as he added another log to the fire. John had gone out to finish his shopping, and Sherlock wanted to have a fire blazing in the grate when John returned. Sherlock found himself wanting to do all kinds of things for John now that they had admitted their feelings for each other; it was a little disconcerting to care so much about another person, but Sherlock wasn’t complaining. Making John happy made him happy.

Recognizing the tune he was humming as something from the radio, Sherlock cut himself off. John would appreciate the fire and the tea, but Sherlock didn’t want to face his teasing if he was caught humming something as droll and blatantly sexual as ‘Santa Baby.’

Satisfied with the fire, Sherlock stood and waltzed into the kitchen to check on the tea. He had already arranged some of the gingerbread he and John had made the day before (the second batch wasn’t quite as burnt as the first had been) on a plate and two festive mugs were sitting next to it just waiting to be filled. Sherlock glanced at the clock over the stove and clicked the electric kettle on. John would be arriving home soon, if Sherlock’s estimate was at all accurate (it usually was), and Sherlock wanted to be able to offer him a fresh cup of tea as soon as he walked through the door.

Sherlock smiled as he poured boiling water into the waiting mugs. John was going to be quite pleased to see everything Sherlock had done while he was out. Almost all of Sherlock’s experiments had been finished or moved out of the kitchen, and the sitting room was a bit tidier than it had been. He hadn’t dusted, but Sherlock was sure John would be able to tell straight away how much effort Sherlock had put in to making the flat look nicer. Feeling accomplished, Sherlock finished spooning sugar into his tea and took both the mugs and the plate of gingerbread with him into the sitting room. He settled in front of the fire and waited expectantly for John to come back.

Sherlock didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he jerked awake several hours later to John murmuring his name.

“Sherlock, wake up.”

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Sherlock regarded John curiously. “John?” The flat was dark around them and the fire was nearly out. The detective scrambled to coax it back to life. “What time is it?”

“Late,” John sighed, joining Sherlock on the floor in front of the fire with a groan. “Shopping took way longer than it should’ve. I was not expecting that sort of crowd on a Tuesday afternoon… You weren’t waiting for me, were you?”

Sherlock glanced at the plate of gingerbread and two mugs of stone-cold tea next to him. “Not really. I must have fallen asleep watching the fire. I was trying to determine the burn-rate of various types of firewood,” he lied, moving to hide the evidence of his surprise from John.

John caught sight of the plate despite Sherlock’s efforts. “Liar,” he chided playfully. “You were waiting for me with gingerbread and tea.”

The detective didn’t say anything, instead reaching over to offer the plate to John mutely.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry!” John whispered, taking the detective’s hands instead of the gingerbread. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me! The fire was for me too, wasn’t it?” Sherlock didn’t need to reply for John to know the answer. “That was lovely of you, Sherlock. I’m sorry I didn’t come back in time to enjoy it with you.”

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock said softly, glancing at their joined hands. “I have left you waiting plenty of times before. I should be apologizing to you.”

John shook his head. “No, Sherlock, you don’t need to apologize. I know you never mean anything by it when you wander off. You’ve got so many things in that big brain of yours; I’m privileged to be even a small part of it.” He smiled. “What else did you have planned for us besides gingerbread and tea by the fire?”

“I cleaned,” Sherlock admitted, meeting John’s gaze. “I disposed of half of my experiments and tried to organize some of my piles in here.” He gestured to the darkened sitting room. “Obviously you can’t see it right now, but this room is a lot neater than it was.”

 “I noticed that I didn’t trip over anything as I was coming over here,” John agreed with a grin. “Thank you for doing that, Sherlock. I know you didn’t want to…”

“I did it because I knew it would make you happy.” Sherlock felt himself blushing.

“It does make me happy,” John murmured, reaching up to brush his fingers over Sherlock’s reddening cheeks. “It makes me very happy, Sherlock.” He leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to where his fingers had just been. “Very, very happy.”

Sherlock smirked. “Prove it, John.”

John raised an eyebrow before moving a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pressing a kiss to his lips. Sherlock returned the kiss eagerly, tilting his head slightly and opening his mouth as John caressed his lips with his tongue. The kiss turned hard and desperate as the two fought for dominance. Sherlock won by pulling John onto his lap and groping at his arse greedily. John moaned and Sherlock took the opportunity to plunder his mouth before latching on to his neck instead.

“Oh God,” John whimpered, shifting so he was straddling Sherlock with his knees as the detective went to town on his pulse-point. “If this is what happens every time I come home late I may have to actually start going to work more.”

Sherlock leaned back to regard John with a heated expression. “I would prefer if this was the reward for every time you came home early,” he rumbled.

“I can definitely work with that,” John retorted before leaning down to kiss Sherlock again. “Definitely…”

They snogged in front of the dying fire until it went out.


	12. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer

John sighed contentedly as he posted his latest blog entry and closed his laptop. Life with Sherlock was always an adventure, and he had been meaning to write-up their last case with the Yard for weeks now, but what with Christmas decorating and getting a tree and snogging Sherlock senseless, John just hadn’t had the time until now.

Glancing over at his flat-mate, John was filled with a sudden rush of fondness. Sherlock was currently sprawled across the couch, his head hanging off one of the arms as he flipped through news headlines on his phone. Lestrade may be taking the whole of December off, but Sherlock was determined to prove to the DI that crime never sleeps. Unfortunately for Sherlock, it seemed that most of the criminal classes had either been filled with the spirit of the holidays or weren’t too keen on venturing out in the snow…

With a smile, John stood and stretched before heading into the kitchen to refresh his mug of tea. He snagged a piece of gingerbread out of the fridge and wandered back into the sitting room, humming.

“Budge up, Sherlock.”

The detective’s gaze moved from his phone’s screen to his flat-mate’s face at a glacial speed. John was unperturbed.

“Budge up, Sherlock,” he repeated, gesturing with his mug. “There’s a Christmas special on and I want to watch.”

“Watch it from your arm chair,” Sherlock drawled, returning his attention to his phone. “It’s closer.”

“I want to watch it with you,” John clarified, placing his mug on the coffee table so he could move Sherlock’s legs out of the way. “Specifically, I want to cuddle with you while I watch it. Is that acceptable?”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but he sat up and allowed John to join him on the sofa.

“Phone away, Sherlock, and pass me that blanket.”

“You actually want me to watch this with you?” Sherlock grumbled, handing the blanket to John, who promptly threw it over both of them.

“Yes. Now shut-up and watch.”

John turned on the telly and flipped to the proper channel. It took Sherlock less than five seconds to find something to complain about.

“This is a children’s special, isn’t it? God, it’s clay-mation. How old is this thing? Don’t tell me that snowman is going to narrate the entire time. Snowmen don’t talk, John. Why do we let children watch things like this? It’s ridicu—Ow!”

John elbowed the detective hard in the ribs to get him to shut-up. “It’s a children’s special about Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, Sherlock. Don’t think about it, just watch.” He rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock glared at the top of John’s head for a moment and swallowed down three different protests about factual inaccuracies (Reindeer don’t _have_ noses like that! Dentistry is about more than just pulling out teeth. Those elves are breaking six different labor laws.), but seeing that John was actually planning on watching and enjoying the entire program, he resigned himself to the worst. Once he relaxed and concentrated on the feeling of John pressed against his side, Sherlock found that he could enjoy the program for what it was; a story about an outcast who used his differences to make himself worth knowing was something Sherlock could relate to.


	13. Jingle Bells

“How do you feel about caroling, Sherlock? Mike and I might need a third tonight.”

Sherlock shot his flat-mate an incredulous look. “You know how I feel about Christmas music, John. What makes you think singing it to other people would be my idea of a good time?”

John paused. “… You’re right. Sorry, don’t know what I was thinking…”

“Do you ever?” Sherlock drawled, returning his attention to his violin. He was trying to compose something for John, but so far he found himself getting distracted by every movement the doctor made. It was beyond frustrating, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to get mad at John; in fact, he rather enjoyed the interruptions.

“Ignoring that…” John sunk onto the sofa with a sigh. “You don’t hate all Christmas music, though,” he muttered after a few minutes.

“If you’re going to speak to me, it would help if you were loud enough to be heard.”

John shook his head. “I was just saying that you don’t hate all Christmas music. I’ve caught you humming different songs quite a few times since December started. And remember how you played parts of The Nutcracker when we were baking?”

Sherlock set his violin down. “Humming a song does not indicate enjoyment of said song, John. Often I am forced to hum a song to get it out of my head, I believe that happens to everyone, and I played those pieces while we were baking because I knew you would appreciate them.”

“You played them without music,” John persisted, raising a defiant eyebrow. “That means at some point you had to sit down and memorize those songs. No one memorizes the music to songs they despise, even if it is for a loved one.”

Sherlock looked impressed. “Sound logic, John, I’ll give you that,” he admitted slowly. “The Nutcracker was the first ballet Mummy ever took me to… But that is neither here nor there. I dislike most Christmas music because it is over-produced, has simplistic and idiotic lyrics, and is overtly religious, oddly sexual, or obviously intended for children.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you just admitted to memorizing The Nutcracker because it holds sentimental value!” John pointed out with a grin. “That’s why I like Christmas songs,” he continued, “they remind me of the good times I’ve had around the holidays. I agree, some of them are _way_ over-done, but the classics are still classics, no matter how many times you hear them.”

“I can understand your enjoyment of Christmas songs for nostalgic reasons, I suppose,” Sherlock relented. “Obviously, you understand my disdain?”

“Obviously,” John agreed, “but that won’t prevent me from singing along with a song or two at times or asking you to play something every so often. I promise I won’t blast Christmas music 24-7 if you promise not to complain so loudly when I do turn on the radio. Deal?”

Sherlock nodded and picked up his violin. “Deal.” He turned to start composing again.

John was quiet for a few more minutes, obviously lost in thought. Sherlock had just finished writing down a new phrase when John shifted on the couch and caught the detective’s eye.

“I know you aren’t going to come out with Mike and me for caroling at the pub tonight,” John began, “and now that I think about, I don’t know why I thought of asking in the first place, but would you mind helping me figure out a few harmonies? It’s been a while since I’ve sung in front of a crowd.”

Sherlock considered for a moment. “What song are you going to sing?”

“Mike wants to do ‘Jingle Bells,’” John said with a shrug. “I thought ‘Silent Night’ would be better, but he pointed out that we’re just singing at the pub. People are going to want to sing along, and ‘Jingle Bells’ is a lot easier for a drunk person to join in on.”

“He’s definitely right in that regard,” Sherlock muttered, nose wrinkling slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sherlock played the melody while John sang along, harmonizing as best he could. When 5 o’clock came around, John thanked Sherlock for his help and left for the pub. Sherlock didn’t point out that John was way more talented than he gave himself credit for. John didn’t point out that Sherlock hadn’t needed any music to play Jingle Bells.


	14. Winter Wonderland

“Explain to me again why we’re out here, John.”

John sighed as the queue moved forward again. “Because it’s fun, Sherlock, and because the Yard is paying for it. Why? You aren’t worried you’ll make a fool of yourself, are you?”

Sherlock scowled. “That would require me caring what these people think. I can assure you, I do not.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” John concluded as they reached the front of the queue. “Now, what size do you wear again?”

Sherlock accepted the pair of skates from the woman in the window moodily and trailed after John like a child who knew he was in trouble. When John sat down on one of the many benches around the ice rink, Sherlock joined him, but the detective made no motion to remove his shoes; he just stared at the skates in his hands with a look of trepidation. If John didn’t know any better, he’d have told you Sherlock was afraid.

“Don’t just look at them, Sherlock,” John said gently, tying the laces on his own skates. “You have to put them on. I promise they won’t bite.”

“They are inanimate objects, John; how on earth would they _bite_ me?” Sherlock snapped.

“It’s an expression, Sherlock…” John sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not exactly excited about this whole skating thing either. I’m fairly certain I’m going to fall a lot, but I thought it would be a fun thing to do together. If you really don’t want to, we don’t have to; we can go back to the flat and do something else.”

“No, I…” Sherlock trailed off, looking embarrassed. “I’m not worried about falling, John,” he said softly, not meeting the doctor’s eyes, “I’m worried that I’ll be too good.”

John snorted. “Only you would be concerned about looking too good, Sherlock,” he teased.

“I don’t want to embarrass you, John,” Sherlock insisted. “Mummy forced me and Mycroft to take figure skating lessons when we were young. Mycroft was never very good, but the instructor said I had a talent for it.”

“You won’t embarrass me, Sherlock,” John murmured, touched. “Are you kidding? If anything I’ll embarrass you. Here, put those skates on, I want to see what you can do!”

Sherlock complied, tightening the skates with practiced ease. Everything Sherlock did every day was graceful; John couldn’t wait to see what he looked like on the ice.

“I don’t want to go out there alone,” Sherlock confided in John as they made their way to the edge of the ice rink. There were only a few other people skating, most of them just going around in circles, paired off or in groups.

“I’m just going to slow you down,” John whispered back, gazing at the ice nervously. “Why don’t you do a lap or two and then come get me? You can help me stay up.”

Sherlock nodded and stepped out onto the ice, dodging around a passing group easily. John followed him on shaking legs, clinging to the wall of the rink for dear life. He waved Sherlock on, then turned around (still holding tight to the wall) to watch the detective in action.

Sherlock on ice was just as graceful as Sherlock on solid ground. He moved around the rink with ease, clearly comfortable in a pair of skates. After completing a lap around the entire rink, he moved towards the open ice in the center. Winter Wonderland was playing over the rink’s sound system and Sherlock seemed to pick up the tune immediately, moving in time with the music. John stared, struck dumb, as Sherlock spun around to skate backwards before whirling around again and balancing on one skate. He performed a series of spinning leaps, landed the last one perfectly, and whipped around to skate back to John. The entire routine had matched the music perfectly. Sherlock was grinning.

“That was _amazing_!” John gasped as soon as Sherlock was in ear-shot.

Sherlock looked pleased. “I’m glad you thought so. Now it’s your turn.”

John’s eyes widened and his gaze darted from Sherlock to the wall and back again. “I think I’ll pass,” he said weakly. “This wall is very nice and is keeping me upright.”

“Take my hand, John,” Sherlock rumbled, amused. “I’ll help.”

John clung to Sherlock’s arm desperately as the detective steered them away from the wall and out onto the ice. They wound up skating for hours, time forgotten as Sherlock slowly coached John in staying upright while skating. John only fell once.


	15. White Christmas

Sherlock was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had told John he was going to St. Bart’s to pick up something from Molly, but on the way home, Sherlock was struck with an idea for the perfect gift for John for Christmas. One minor detour later, and he was heading back to 221 with a head in one hand and a gift for John in the other. Sherlock was excited about the new head (there were at least three different experiments he could perform using various pieces), but he found that he was more anxious to get home so he could give John his gift. The detective knew Christmas was still ten days away, but he doubted he would be able to wait that long to surprise John.

As Sherlock walked, snow began to fall again on the streets of London. It had been snowing on and off since the beginning of December (unusual, perhaps there was something to be said about this climate change phenomenon), and it seemed like every day London was covered in more and more white. Sherlock would normally have complained about the snow until it all melted away, but John seemed to like it, and that made Sherlock feel less annoyed by the inconvenience it caused. John was influencing Sherlock’s opinion a lot, actually. It was new, but not exactly unwelcomed.

Rounding the corner of Baker Street, Sherlock gripped his bags tighter and remembered how he and John had collided on this very spot just a week ago. That collision had changed everything…

-PFF!-

Sherlock reeled back, shaking his head to get the snow out of his eyes. Someone or something had just thrown a handful of snow at him, and Sherlock was going to figure out why as soon as he could see again. Snow dripped down his cheek and under his scarf, causing him to shudder as the cold reached his neck. “What in the--?!” he started to shout, before another snowball hit him squarely in the cheek.

Whirling, Sherlock found John crouching in the snow, laughing.

“John? What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

John looked up, grinning. “Challenging you to a snowball fight!”

Before Sherlock could argue, John scooped up another handful of snow and lobbed it at the detective. Sherlock dodged, leaning his bags against the nearest wall and grabbing some snow for himself. He formed it into a ball and sent it sailing in John’s direction.

“Oh, it is _on_!” John cheered, diving behind a parked car to avoid getting pelted with snow.

“This is childish, John!” Sherlock protested as he was forced to hide behind someone’s bins.

“Fun though, isn’t it?”

Sherlock threw another snowball, which hit John directly in the nose. “It is rather enjoyable, yes,” Sherlock agreed as John spluttered and wiped his nose on his gloves. “Hitting the target makes this much more entertaining.”

John retaliated by throwing a huge ball of slush that hit Sherlock in the ear.


	16. Darling it's Cold Outside

John woke up to the sound of Sherlock snoring. Normally the detective made very little noise at night, which was why John found Sherlock snoring to be a bit disturbing. If he was snoring this badly it meant he was congested, which meant he had a cold, which meant John was in for one hell of a morning. A sick Sherlock was an unhappy Sherlock, and John was not looking forward to this round of sniffles.

Resigned, John rolled out of bed and closed the bedroom door softly before padding downstairs to turn the kettle on. Might as well get started with soothing teas now before Sherlock got so stuffed up he couldn’t taste anything… John pulled a couple of eggs out of the fridge and started making breakfast while he waited for the water to boil. As he worked, he hummed to himself and found his thoughts drifting back to the conversation he and Sherlock had had the previous day. Sherlock had wanted to go out to get something from the lab at St. Bart’s, but John was insistent that the detective stay in. The lyrics to ‘Darling it’s Cold Outside’ may or may not have worked their way into their argument. They were at a stubborn impasse until Sherlock distracted John with kisses and ran out before the doctor could say no.

“Getting him back by challenging him to that snowball fight was a bad idea,” John muttered to himself, flipping eggs. “The point was to keep him out of the snow, Watson, not coat him in the stuff...” With a sigh, he divided the eggs between two plates and poured the tea. “I hope this isn’t a bad one.”

John placed everything he needed on a tray and very carefully carried the whole thing back up the stairs to his bedroom. As he pushed the door open, Sherlock sat up.

“John,” Sherlock whined, only with his nose stuffed up it sounded more like ‘Daaawn.’ “John, I seem to be experiencing some congestion.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John said gently, placing the tray on the bedside table and reaching up to feel the detective’s forehead, “I told you going out yesterday was a bad idea.”

“You were the one who threw snow at me,” Sherlock pointed out, clearly pouting.

John smiled. “I wouldn’t have had to throw snow if you had just stayed in like I told you to. Don’t you blame this on me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock scowled but accepted the tea John offered him without a word.

“I made some eggs for breakfast, if you’d like,” John added, gesturing towards the tray he had brought with him, “and I can bring you your laptop or something to read, but you are not allowed to get out of bed today; doctor’s orders. Do you understand?”

“I’m not a _child_ ,” Sherlock protested.

“No, but when you’re sick you behave like one,” John concluded, picking up a fork and tucking in to his own breakfast. “Now, do you want to feed yourself or do you want me to feed you?”

Sherlock snatched the fork out of John’s fingers and stole a bite off his plate.

“Mature, Sherlock,” John sighed. “Real mature.”


	17. There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays

“Sherlock, do we know anyone in France?”

Sherlock sat bolt upright on the couch and wrenched the blankets off of his lap, practically throwing himself at John. “Is that the invitation? Give it to me, John. Give it to me!”

“Alright, alright, calm down!” John offered Sherlock the envelope he had been examining. “Don’t hurt yourself, Sherlock! You’re still sick.”

Sherlock snatched the envelope away from John and ripped it open. A gilded card fell out. Sherlock read it quickly, eyes darting back and forth before letting out a laugh of triumph and flinging the card in the direction of the hearth.

“Sherlock!” John scolded, picking the card up from where it had fluttered to the ground a good seven feet from the fireplace. “You can’t just burn it! It was addressed to both of us!”

Sherlock scoffed. “It’s not important, John. Don’t bother…”

John looked at Sherlock curiously before focusing on the card in his hands. It was made of high-quality cardstock and the gold writing on the front was obviously done by a careful and practiced hand. ‘You are cordially invited,’ it read, ‘to the holiday event of the year.’

“This seems like a pretty important invitation to me,” John mused.

Sherlock huffed from his place on the couch. “Read the inside.”

The inside of the card was covered with the same careful script, this time in silver as well as gold. ‘Please join us for our annual Christmas celebration, starting at 1pm on Friday, December 21st. Black tie. Instead of gifts, please make a donation to the charity of your choice.’

“It doesn’t say where it is,” John said, turning the card over to check the back, “or who it’s from… Do you know what this is about, Sherlock?”

“It’s from my mother,” Sherlock answered shortly. “She is inviting us to go to the manor so she can show me off to some obscure cousins and determine whether or not you should be allowed near me.”

“I… Allowed near you? She can’t have that sort of influence, can she?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in John’s direction. “You’ve met my brother, John. Of course my mother can decide who I’m allowed around.” He smirked. “Unfortunately, she didn’t actually write either of our names on the invitation itself, which means she doesn’t think we’ll show.”

“We aren’t going to go?”

“God, no!”

John looked back at the invitation. “I don’t know, Sherlock… It doesn’t sound too bad.”

“We are not going, John,” Sherlock snapped. “I will not give Mycroft the satisfaction.”

Remembering something Mycroft had said to him the second time they had met, John couldn’t help but grin. “’You can imagine the Christmas dinners’ indeed… There’s no place like Holmes for the holidays, is there?”

Sherlock glared, although the effect was ruined by the snot bubble in his left nostril. “I would very much appreciate it if you never used that particular pun ever again.”


End file.
